


Modern Art

by TaleWorthTelling



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky is a good boyfriend, F/M, M/M, Multi, POV Second Person, Reader fic - Freeform, Shameless Smut, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 06:29:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5529452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaleWorthTelling/pseuds/TaleWorthTelling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky misses your date, but he makes it up to you pretty spectacularly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Modern Art

**Author's Note:**

> You know what's surprisingly really fun to write? Reader fic. So much fun. Good cure for writer's block.

 

 

Bucky's late. He'd said he'd swing by after work and you'd head out to dinner, but nine came and went two hours ago and you've been on your feet all day. You make a sandwich and grab a beer, sighing a little as you think about the mushroom risotto and bottle of Riesling with your name on them just waiting at the restaurant. Another time, then.

 

He's never late without a good reason, though, so you decide to relax instead of being annoyed (or concerned, which could easily consume you if you let it, knowing what it is that he does for a living -- or rather, not knowing nearly enough). You take a hot shower, washing off the antiseptic cling of the hospital. You take your time smoothing on your moisturizer cream (the nice, expensive one that feels too indulgent to use every day), gliding your hands down the skin of your neck, your shoulders, down your sternum where you normally skimp, until your fingers are splayed out low over your belly, between your hipbones. You pause, turning to the tall mirror on the back of your bedroom door. You smile, feeling just a bit daring, and you shake your damp hair out until it's draped before your face, gently falling in heavy waves over the curve of your breasts, the ends tickling where they curl and stick to you. It's cool and dark from the water, and you feel confident and beautiful as you study the lines of it, like thick strokes from a brush painting across you.

 

You want to remember this moment where you feel courageous and gorgeous, so you grab your phone and snap a mirror selfie that you think you should probably feel embarrassed about at your age, but you're not. After a long second of wavering your thumb over the screen, you tap the 'send' button before you can chicken out and huff a tiny laugh to yourself. God, the things he makes you feel, the excitement and tingling warmth that hasn't taken root in you for years just coiling in delight.

 

You think about that picture on his phone, innocently waiting in his pocket for him to see it, as you finish your nightly ablutions, pampering to a degree that you normally reserve only for your birthday. You think about him opening it, and as you climb into bed and turn off the lights, wearing your nice underwear and a thin camisole instead of your normal nightwear of an old tee shirt and shorts, you think about what he'll do when he sees it.

 

You throw back the covers and pull just the sheet over you, barely far enough to cover your hips, billowing out and draping across you as it falls back to the bed. You spread your legs apart and plant your feet, bending your knees and rocking your hips down a little to settle in, luxuriating.

 

He likes it when you wear your hair down. He hasn't really said as much, wouldn't ask you to keep yourself a particular way just for him, but he smiles a certain smile when you shake it out to brush it before putting it back up again; and sometimes when he says hello with your head in his hands and his lips on your forehead, he works his fingers into it a little, just as much as he can with it up in a ponytail, and you end up having to pull it out and redo it. You don't mind, though. (Well, you don't mind yet. It might get old someday.) And even though you keep it up in bed most of the time, safely out of the way for convenience, the few times you've had it down he's carefully moved it back over the pillows, brushed it over your shoulder, wrapped it over his hand and gently eased your head back 'til he could reach your lips.

 

You imagine he'll like the visual.

 

Even though you're not clear on the specifics of what he does, you know the odds are good that right now he's got just as much chance of being holed up somewhere talking over plans as he does of being crouched on a rooftop shooting at things. (Or people, but you try not to think about that. The last three televised bouts involved robots, so you're sticking with that.) Or he could be waiting somewhere, no one around, nothing to do, stuck in a holding pattern with nothing but anticipation and a charged phone. (Logic dictates that he probably doesn't have his phone on him when he's working. Logic can kiss your ass.)

 

Yeah, he's waiting, nothing to do, safely stuck out of the way, and no one's in trouble right now and he knows it's going to be at least another hour before anything interesting actually starts to happen, and he opens his phone to tell you he's sorry he'll have to miss dinner, but instead he sees your message and his jaw drops.

 

You know just what he looks like when he opens his pants, so you go with that, skating your fingers over your underwear, not enough pressure to do more than tease. You do it again, faster, and soon you're rolling them lightly over yourself to a nice, steady rhythm. By the time the dampness between your legs reaches the fabric, he's already got his pants down around his thighs and one hand has slid up his shirt, pushing it up to expose the line of hair low on his belly.

 

One of your favorite things about him (in bed, at least; otherwise the list would be endless because it still grows every day) is his sensitive nipples. They fascinate you. Your breasts aren't that sensitive, really, too big to honestly get much satisfaction from having them played with, but by God you can get Bucky halfway there just by licking his tiny nipples and blowing on them and flicking them. The way he writhes and twists around under you, pushing up into you at the same time as he's thinking about pulling away, still sets a fire in you.

 

He'd open his mouth and lick his fingertips, two of them just dragging down his tongue to get them good and wet. What a perfect tongue. You're very familiar with it (and not just because of the afternoon he spent stuffing and licking a box of envelopes and the stamps that followed because he hadn't gotten the self-adhesive kind, although you did enjoy that).

 

Your fingers slip into your underwear where you're slick and warm, your palm grinding into your clit. You rock your hips.

 

You keep on like that for a while, slowly building, fantasy reaching, until you're relaxed and sleepy. You doze off thinking about Bucky in bed beside you and hoping that whatever he's doing right now, he's okay.

 

You're a light sleeper, though, and when you hear the key in the door, you're awake. Suddenly you're very conscious of the lingerie you fell asleep in; it's skewed and pulled in weird directions and one breast has fallen completely out of the top. You hurriedly right yourself, but Bucky's already walking into the bedroom just as you're stuffing it back in.

 

You'd been going for sensual and alluring, but you suppose walking in on you with your breast in your hand and your underwear so far up the crack of your butt that your labia are visible must be reasonably appealing, too, because Bucky's face immediately goes from tired to playful and dark. He looks you straight up and down and says over his shoulder, still taking you in from the corner of his eye, "I told you, tonight's the night."

 

You stop combing your hair with your fingers and you freeze. Who is he talking to? Shouldn't you get dressed?

 

"Remember that thing we talked about?" he asks, turning back to you fully. He's already stripping off the pieces of tac gear that he hadn't bothered to shed before he came home, the gloves and some of the holsters and the reinforced undershirt. "The special occasion thing?"

 

"The list?" you ask, gathering the sheet around your shoulders, more for the chill than for any real discomfort. You trust Bucky not to be a dick.

 

"What was at the top of the list? The one we really talked about for a long time?" He sits down on the end of the bed and slips his hands right under the sheet to stroke down the top of your foot. He's already turning his body and pulling your foot into his lap to massage it when the penny drops and you gasp.

 

"Oh, my God," you let out on a breath. Your chest feels warm suddenly. You let the sheet drop to pool around your lap. He hikes your leg closer to rub up and down your calf. "Oh, Bucky."

 

"Yeah. He's been thinking about this for a long time, too."

 

You have to put that thought on hold for a minute -- partly to process the fact that _oh God Bucky's brought his best friend to take you apart and put you back together and oh Jesus you've woken up in a dream_ \-- because it is two in the morning and there's a bruise blossoming over Bucky's scraped cheek. It looks like it's been cleaned already, and your clinical skills don't lead you to any other obvious injuries, but still.

 

"Was it a very good mission," you ask carefully, "or a very bad mission?"

 

He stops his ministrations, puts your leg down, and crawls closer until he's hovering over you on all fours, big and carrying the scent of sweat and explosions on his skin.

 

"It was an excellent mission, and you don't take those for granted. You celebrate them." He kisses your forehead. Very seriously, he asks, "Can Steve celebrate with us tonight?"

 

You don't really have to think about it, but because you want him to know that you don't have any doubts and you don't want him to feel as though he's sprung this on you, you consider it for a moment, anyway. You catch movement outside the partially closed door, a flash of red and blue because he's _still wearing the uniform_.

 

You've considered it.

 

You tilt your hips up as you reach for Bucky and pull his hips down to meet yours, finding him half-hard already through his heavy pants. They feel rough against you even through the soft sheet and your delicate underwear.

 

A bolt of heat sears through you. You squirm, moan a little on your heavy exhale.

 

"You can come in now," he calls out, but his eyes are on you, transfixed. You've settled back down to the bed and his mouth is already on your neck when the door opens.

 

You don't hear footsteps, but just before you open your eyes (when had you closed them?) you swear you feel a presence, and then you see him. He's so tall, larger than life from this angle. You've met plenty of times and you've gotten used to his size, but you've never been below him like this, vulnerable like this, with him looking down at you.

 

Steve Rogers fills a room.

 

You can't help the involuntary buck of your hips, the muscles in your thighs that spasm, just aching to wrap around Bucky's waist. Bucky chuckles into your neck; his eyes are still closed, but you'd bet that he can sense Steve coming from a mile away and he likes the effect. They're like magnets when they move, always working in tandem, always aware of where the other is whether by push or by pull, and it's hypnotizing and fascinating to watch even when they're just hanging out watching baseball and complaining about paperwork. What that'll be like when they're in bed together, turning their energies on you ...

 

You whimper.

 

Bucky licks a wide, hot stripe up the contours of your neck, all the way to the shell of your ear before sliding back down to tease it down your jaw. When he reaches your lips you happily part them and welcome him inside.

 

You let yourself get lost in this, in Bucky, for a while, before you start to notice that he's swaying a little from side to side, going more boneless by the minute. You look over his shoulder. Steve's rubbing slow circles across Bucky's back, digging his thumb into the muscles in some spots, scratching with his nails here and there. It doesn't look like Steve's pushing all that hard, but Bucky's letting his whole body rock anyway. You reach up to rub your thumbs over his cheekbones, tiny circles compared to Steve's big sweeps. Bucky groans and his shoulders sag.

 

Steve looks up at you curiously, eyebrows raised like he's asking a question. You don't know what he wants, but you're open to a lot, so you quirk a smile at him and figure it's enough.

 

He leans down to brush his lips over the back of Bucky's neck, continuing the movement until he's trailed them over to your neck and all the way up to your chin, and it feels so different from Bucky.

 

"Mind if I drag Buck here into the shower first? He's got buildings in his hair and if you haven't noticed yet that he smells like a barn, just wait 'til he takes off that shirt."

 

Bucky snorts. "You're not exactly a rose yourself."

 

"I'm rugged," Steve says dryly. "But I'd also like to wash up before we do too much damage to your bed."

 

"Yeah, sure," you say. "Go ahead. I need a glass of water, anyway. You know where the towels are."

 

Bucky sighs. He backs off of you and wrinkles his nose at the dust and grit he's left on the sheets. You wave him off before he can apologize. At least now you have all the excuse you need to dig out the really nice, silky sheets that you never use because they're such a pain to clean.

 

"Grab some extra towels on your way back," you request.

 

With Bucky out of the way, Steve is taking you in, all of you. He's openly admiring, and your skin heats. He tips his head politely before he leaves with Bucky, revealing the scrapes and tears up and down the back of his uniform. You stare for a second, but then you shake your head. They're calling it a win, they're happy, they're ambulatory.

 

You pull off the bedclothes and have it made again with the good sheets in no time at all, hospital corners and everything. When you leave to get your water, you carefully avoid the mirror this time, not out of embarrassment but because this all feels so intense; if you see yourself right now, as they see you, you think you might just be overwhelmed. Best not overthink it.

 

God. Your skin is tingling where Steve's lips were on you. Bucky is comfortable, familiar, and you trust him. You trust Steve, too, but you're so used to Bucky that you always know where he's going to be. Steve is a mystery. If one touch is so thrilling, you wonder what the rest will be like. If this is how Bucky still feels with Steve after all this time or if it's the newness.

 

You wonder if they're screwing around in the shower, excited to lay hands on each other for the first time in what has to be ages (since at least before you and Bucky started dating), but they're out within a few minutes and Bucky looks just as wound up but no more, so you're thinking they kept their hands to themselves.

 

It's a pity they'd had to change because you'd have liked to watch them peel off their clothes, or maybe undress them yourself (did they undress each other?), but the miles of naked, damp, only slightly bruised skin before you are hardly unwelcome. They haven't even bothered wrapping towels around their waists after what looks like a perfunctory dry-off, but they did remember to bring the fresh towels you'd asked for, neatly stacked on your nightstand.

 

You glance at the clock as you hand them each a glass of water. "You sure you're not tired?"

 

The twin smirks they share are answer enough, but Bucky reels you in with one arm around your waist anyway. "I promise, I am definitely not too tired to blow your mind. There's no way I'm going to be able to sleep for at least another hour or two and I can't think of a better way to spend it."

 

Lines like that still work on you, at least when they're coming from him. You hug him properly, finally letting your relief at having him home safe show through. He hugs back, and you laugh when you realize that he's trying to angle his hips slightly away, trying not to rub himself on you because he's feeling the moment and the moment says _not right now, you'll get yours in a minute, right now we're doing feelings_. He shrugs a little.

 

You reach down and palm him, squeezing lightly.

 

He sighs, slipping his hand down to rest on your hip, and shivers when your other hand scratches across his lower belly. His eyes close to just slits, barely open at all.

 

You glance around his shoulder and get your first look at your boyfriend’s best friend’s equipment. You’re not even a little embarrassed that your eyes go there first, then to his face second, because when you do look up, he’s grinning at you in this way that you’re not sure you’ve seen before, and you’ve seen him win bets and pin Bucky while wrestling, so you’ve seen a carefully coveted few. Not many – sometimes you’re convinced that the man’s just not a smiler – but enough to understand why they give Bucky such a thrill.

 

You shiver, too. And bite your lip, because _damn_. It doesn’t seem fair that he can already be so gorgeous and have such a pretty dick, too. You suppose it balances out, in a karmic way: if you’re going to have to swim through that much shit in one lifetime, you should get to have really nice junk.

 

You snort, attracting their attention, and you wince because you’ve yet to meet the guy who wouldn’t side-eye you for laughing while they’ve got their clothes off, but these two don’t seem to mind and you love Bucky just a little bit more than you already did. You kiss him in apology anyway, deeply enough that by the time you come up for air you don’t even remember what you were apologetic about in the first place.

 

Steve’s come closer, close enough that heat rolls off of him, and it seems appropriate to say it’s like a fire, because you’ve read enough pulp romance novels that you like the way it feels on your tongue, and because that’s the intensity he’s looking at Bucky with, just for a second, just long enough to notice and then he’s got it locked down again, cool and controlled.

 

You wonder how you look at Bucky, if it makes him feel the way that you felt just now. You hope so.

 

Bucky pants into your clavicle, humid and heavy, nosing up into your neck. You’d thought that maybe Steve would be hesitant – all manners, maybe, or not sure where to jump in – but he slips his hand right over the back of Bucky’s neck to rub affectionately and tug his head back a little. He spares him a kiss on his forehead, then moves straight on to you, letting Bucky lean right back into your shoulder.

 

He doesn’t do anything at first, just gets close, back surprisingly straight for a man clearly about to make the first move in a threesome.

 

“You’ve talked about this a lot?”

 

You almost, _almost_ , roll your eyes to tell him that you’ve thought this through plenty, yes, you’re sure, before you backtrack and really let the huskiness of his voice roll over you, and you realize something.

 

“Do you like that, Steve? Being talked about?” You almost called him Captain, just because you think that’d be fun, but you’re not sure he’d go for it and it might just be weird. Maybe next time.

 

Jesus, you’re already thinking about _next time_ and you’ve barely started in on this time. You really are lost on this guy. Speaking of, he’s moved his hands to your hips, rubbing gentle circles that lightly push you back and forth from one palm to the other, lips traveling across your shoulder.

 

Steve takes that as an invitation, which is good, because that’s what it was. His hands are bigger than Bucky’s, but just as careful when he plants one of them firmly on your lower back, palm still damp from the shower.

 

“Nah, Steve here’s a shrinking violet, aren’t you?” Bucky murmurs. “Clutched his pearls and everything when I first told him.”

 

Yeah, right.

 

Steve pries Bucky’s hands from your hips and shoves Bucky over to the bed, tripping him just enough that he stumbles over the last inch and falls flat on his back.

 

“I’ll clutch yours in a minute,” Steve says, mouth quirked firmly to the side, like he’s holding back a real smile.

 

Bucky grins, pulling himself farther into the center of the bed and reclining comfortably on his elbows like he’s waiting for the show to start. He looks giddy.

 

While Steve’s turned slightly and staring at Bucky, half-fond and half-challenging, you admire the lines of him: the angles of his face, the long column of neck, the beautiful shoulders. You lay your palm on his sternum, and when he turns back, you go up on your toes and kiss him, sneaking one quick peek at Bucky before your lips touch.

 

Steve’s a good kisser. You’d been a little curious, honestly, about what to expect, and you could kick yourself now because, _duh_ , if he’s up for a three-way with his best friend, he’s probably not as shy and inexperienced as rumor would have you believe.

 

It doesn’t take long for him to pull you sharply against him – a bit like falling into a wall, actually, just a very warm one – and slip his hands down to the small of your back, the swell of your ass.

 

Much as you like the attention, he’s hunching over a bit to reach you, and you’ve lifted too many patients by yourself to not wince at the thought of putting your back through that. You tug him over to your dresser, and before you can hop up onto it, he neatly deposits you there. You spread your legs a bit, getting comfortable, and then reel him back in to lick up his neck like you’ve been imagining all night.

 

Would it be too cheeky to say that he tastes like soap and freedom?

 

Probably. But it’s pretty freeing indeed to have your fill of him uninhibited, knowing that Bucky’s just a couple of feet away and barely keeping his hands away from himself while he watches. Every once in a while you look over Steve’s shoulder and he’s always staring openly, rapt, with naked want brightening his eyes and making his tongue dart out to his lips so often they’re positively shining with it.

 

You don’t get very far, just some very pleasant making out and some brief wandering of hands (mostly yours, if you’re being honest, and what a pleasure it is). It’s almost a getting-to-know-you – but, you know, the naked version – getting used to each other’s presence, being in his space and him in yours.

 

And it’s also to tease Bucky, you’re pretty sure. You share a smile with Steve and in that moment you think you almost _get_ him, just then, as conspirators in the same scheme, sure that you’re communicating the same feeling.

 

You nip at Steve’s lip and tap his hip so you can hop down. And then you saunter over to Bucky, stripping off the camisole as you go and tossing it over your shoulder. Even without looking, you know that Steve caught it; no telltale whisper of fabric hitting the floor reaches your ears. You’re all worked up from messing around with Steve, but you hadn’t really done much except fire up that itch and never come close to scratching it. You don’t waste any time in launching yourself at him, throwing your leg over his familiar lap and rubbing right across his dick where it lays hard and heavy at the apex of his thigh, just like you like it, just like you know he does. The glide is smooth through your expensive underwear, a bit of delightful drag and friction where they’re damp. His hands fly up to your hips, and it looks like he might have had something smart perched on his lips, but it’d flown away the moment you’d come at him meaning business.

 

Bucky does read a room so very well.

 

You know what you need, and after your stressful day and lonely evening, you need it now. Just a quick one to dull the itch, really. It’s only a few minutes before you’re exactly where you need to be, knowing as you do how to get there, every muscle in your body tensing, eyes shut tight, and you hold yourself over him very still, almost shaking with the effort, until you relax in a heap across his chest. You kiss his nipples, enjoying his shiver, and then flop to the side, mimicking his posture by leaning back on your elbows and gesturing in what you hope is a grand way that conveys both the hierarchy of this encounter and that they should show you something now, too. Mostly it just makes your breasts move in ways that draw their gaze immediately and predictably. You sigh, long-suffering and exaggerated, but give them an extra shake anyway.

 

Bucky drops a kiss between them and gets up. Suddenly, as he approaches Steve and you sink deeper into your position to get comfortable, pulling a pillow behind you, you have a flash of clarity and remember: you just made out with Steve first thing, _oh God that really happened and it was good_. Somehow in the moment you’d gotten carried away and just gone for it without thinking, and you’re glad, but somehow you’d been thinking that it would take longer to get comfortable with each other, that you’d play it by ear and maybe one of you would jump in when it felt right.

 

But Steve is the brave sort and he jumps out of planes without parachutes (and once, you hear, even naked), and being around him feels like a boss level, like you’ve come to play and you’re upping your game already. All bets are off, everything’s on the table. You feel braver around him, in a different way from how Bucky makes you want to try new things. Things seem possible right now that yesterday would have made you laugh and shake your head. Maybe it’s the challenge. (Maybe you have more in common than you thought.)

 

It’s a heady feeling, maybe too much for one person, and once again you can see why Bucky’s been gone for this guy for so much of his life. You’d had no idea that it would be like _this,_ that his attention would be so much more than his presence alone, so intense.

 

But you’re missing out, so you fold up that train of thought for later review, because now’s not the time for introspection: now’s the time to watch Bucky stick his tongue down Steve’s throat.

 

Life is good. Life is better still when they take their necking over to the bed and lay down beside you, an up close and personal performance, but also so much more.

 

You learned in eleventh grade history class about the unexpected skirmish that had resulted in one Sergeant James Barnes rescuing a farmer's children and being shot in the ass. It's one of those oft-repeated tales of heroism chock-full of daring and witty one-liners that's seeped into the national consciousness so deeply it's been referenced and honored and parodied backwards and forwards. He calls it a clusterfuck and says it really only grazed him, and he wasn't about to go complaining about it after watching Steve get two bullets dug out of his shoulder with nothing but a belt to bite down on for the pain. Either way, every time you see the scar, there's a split second where your head spins and you actually acknowledge how surreal the entire situation is. Bucky Barnes, right off the pages of a history book, is in your bed, alive and young and still saving the world, telling you his stories in his own words.

 

Not that you spend much time thinking about that. Most of the time he's just your boyfriend, who you met when he was escorting his elderly neighbor to the hospital for the third time and you finally worked up the nerve to just ask for his phone number. That he turned out to be a superhero in addition to an everyday one is something else entirely.

 

It's just visible now between Steve's fingers where they're gripping Bucky. You're struck by how much his hands look like they belong, how they seem to roam across Bucky and grab him of their own accord, and how Bucky melts into his touch. If you thought this might have been awkward before, you were wrong. It's beautiful. You feel special and honored being allowed to share this moment, feel the love pouring between them, before you remember that Bucky is yours and he's got plenty to spare for you. He seems to sense that because he shoots you a sheepish grin and cups your chin in his palm to tip your face back and kiss you the way he knows you like best, soft and warm and a little awkward because he's still smiling and you wouldn't have it any other way. You're smiling, too.

 

When you finally break away and look up, Steve is looking at you. His expression is hard to read, but you think there's something like approval in it -- you're not sure who it's for, but _damn right_ is all you can think. You smile knowingly at him and something in his face softens, surprised, before the corner of his mouth crooks up and he inclines his head at you in acknowledgement, the smallest bow you've ever seen.

 

Your hand drifts down your body, down to your soaked underwear, where you rub for a minute before slipping them down your legs in a motion that brings your knees up so you don’t kick the two besotted heroes beside you. Only they stop suddenly while you’re untangling the fabric from your ankles, a little awkward in this position that’s pretty much half-yoga, and when you sense the lack of movement you look up.

 

They’re staring at your exposed cunt, probably very pretty and inviting with your legs up as they are, plump and open and wet.

 

Not that you’d admit it to anyone, but it’s kind of flattering that your pussy can stop traffic like that. As lost in each other as they’d been, suddenly they seem much more interested in admiring you.

 

Well, then.

 

You toss your underwear somewhere in the direction of the laundry basket by the door. Either one of them would have gotten it perfectly dead-center, but you’re not a superhero or an athlete and you have different skills, and you couldn’t care less where it landed. You grab one of the towels off of the nightstand and lay it out under yourself as quickly and efficiently as possible (because really, you’re not kidding yourself that that one’s sexy, but you know what’s less sexy than forethought? Dry-cleaning).

 

And then you park your feet flat on the bed, spread wide, and lay back, wiggling a little to get comfortable. Within moments they’ve separated and gravitated over to you, with Bucky cradled between your legs and Steve just outside them.

 

You relax, palming your breasts a little to get started, when you notice that, yeah, Bucky’s definitely poking around, but not to eat you out: he’s pointing out to Steve what you like best and where to do it.

 

You can’t decide if it’s very thoughtful or very funny, so you bury your face in your arm and bite your lip.

 

It abruptly gets less funny and much more interesting when a tongue touches down on your lips and slides a firm line up to your clit. An unfamiliar tongue. Even with Bucky’s instructions (and you do appreciate that), Steve touches you differently, and it’s obvious in every stroke. Obvious, but so exciting.

 

While Steve gets busy lost between your legs and your attention is taken up with that, Bucky wiggles his way up the bed to first meet your lips, then slip behind you and pull you against his chest. You reach up to thread your fingers through the hair at the back of his neck, alternately tugging and massaging.

 

He’s got his arms wrapped around you, one tucked under your breasts and the other over your clavicle. It feels like he’s the only thing containing everything welling up in you, like he’s the gravity keeping you together while you process all of this and set it aside and just _feel_ , which is a full-time job because Steve hasn’t let up once.

 

You’d wanted to watch, but your eyes are shut instead just focusing on the pleasure coursing through you, building low and heavy in your belly, winding tight.

 

Bucky’s been doing an admirable job of ignoring his arousal where it presses into your back (you’re not ignoring it, no, you love the reminder), but he’s finally begun squirming, and that moves you with him, which Steve feels and rides out, until you open your eyes and Steve’s looking up at Bucky with a wicked gleam.

 

He looks like he’s got something smart to say, but all he says is, “How ‘bout a taste, Buck?”

 

Bucky doesn’t look like he has anything smart to say at all. In fact, he looks like he won’t for quite some time. He kisses the side of your neck and eases out from behind you, only for Steve to promptly knock him over, flat onto his back, and hold out his hand for you to take. When you do – and it’s sticky, which feels like a reminder and a promise all at once – he steadies you and moves you over Bucky’s face. Bucky wastes no time, lapping first at your thigh where you’re smeared with slick, and then at the source where it drips. He’s soaked so quickly, hair already ruffled, that he looks like he’s been there all night.

 

And then his face, drawn in concentration, goes slack with bliss. And then he hisses a little. You look back over your shoulder.

 

Steve’s on his stomach with his face between Bucky’s cheeks and one hand kneading his balls. The sticky hand.

 

A brief moment of shock stuns you, and then you’re impressed because you wouldn’t have even thought of that. You look down at Bucky where he’s nipping very gently with his teeth now, and that’s a lovely visual, too, but you’re sort of torn. He must be able to feel you swiveling back and forth to look behind you, because eventually he snorts and kisses your leg, then nudges you to just turn around and reseat yourself. So you do, and you fully, openly enjoy, fascinated. You can’t totally see what Steve’s doing, but flashes of tongue keep you interested, as do the writhing of Bucky’s hips, the grasping hand that pushes them down every time, the other one alternating between palming his balls and the base of his dick.

 

It’s just so much, so much at once, so much to be a part of. And it’s all jumbling together in your head, in your chest, shaking you loose from your core on out. You’re watching and feeling and experiencing and you need to ground yourself, so you lean over and take Bucky’s dick into your mouth, not far enough to concentrate much on it, but enough to savor its velvety weight on your tongue and mess around a bit.

 

His hands shoot up to clutch your thighs and dig in, spasming slightly, before moving to wrap around the swell of your ass and fold over your lower back instead. He’s breathing hard, but carefully, pausing from his ministrations only occasionally to pant into you in a way that makes you feel closer to him, makes you feel connected.

 

You can see what Steve’s doing now, your faces so close together in such an awkward place that by all rights, it should _be_ awkward, but it’s just not. You’re enjoying yourself too much, having too much fun trying this new thing, and you boggle just a bit, just for a wild moment, at how watching Steve’s tongue dip into Bucky and undulate feels like the most reasonable, natural thing. What else would you be doing tonight?

 

Here you are, quietly trying not to shake apart, Bucky beneath you being overwhelmed and just holding on by the tips of his fingers, and Steve is a rock, not being touched and not seeming to mind. He’s vital, certainly, hot and energized and very much into what he’s doing, but there’s a certain calculation to him that you’d like to suck away.

 

You almost forget that when your hair tumbles forward in a curtain over your face and he carefully tucks it back over your ear, and then Bucky’s tapping at your hip and coming, with just enough warning that you get your hand over him in time. He only pauses briefly before he doubles up on his efforts and reaches down to press his fingers to that perfect spot and hold it, just rocking, barely moving, and within a minute your thighs have gone stiff and you’re holding your breath and then you relax.

 

And you remember your promise to yourself.

 

You climb off of Bucky and crawl over to Steve, and even though you know it’s just because he lets you, he tips over when you give him a solid push to the chest. You might have thought by his demeanor that he was just warming up, but when you finally reach for his dick and give it a good squeeze, it’s wet.

 

He doesn’t quite taste like freedom, but no one’s perfect. He groans, composure finally slipping just enough that he’s loose with pleasure. He brings a hand up to slip behind you, between your legs, through your folds, idly touching and exploring some more. For a while two long fingers fill you up, then three, and while he’s curling them hard, you push down, rolling your hips, and he teases the fourth. When you give a particularly hard suck, it slips right in, and you’re full, so full, so stretched, that it’s hard to imagine being anywhere else.

 

Except one place, really, and since Bucky’s taking a breather on this one, you pull off of Steve and grab his wrists, pulling them up onto his chest where you press them down and support yourself, and a couple of sinuous motions have him seated deep inside you.

 

“Fuck,” Bucky mutters, rolling closer for a better view. His eyes are wide, limbs still loose and lazy, and he kisses Steve slow and shallow, more for him by the looks of it than for Steve, who’s starting to tense and relax all over.

 

And this, right here, this is exactly what you’d hoped for, more than you’d hoped for, and you smile so wide that your face hurts, just long enough for Bucky to smile back, before you’re distracted.

 

Steve is patient, keeping his hips politely on the bed, but when Bucky starts rubbing his chest, idly plucking at his nipples, scratching his nails along his belly to the trail of hair there, he finally starts to crack just enough to thrust up, and after that it’s not long.

 

Bucky swallows his noises as he comes, jerking up into you, and you tense around him, clenching as hard as you can and squeezing your legs together, just long enough to drag out one more, hips rolling in tiny circles. You press the heel of your hand against yourself and grind into it, shuddering as you fall over the edge and finally, finally, the itch is gone, and you can relax and not move for probably the next century.

 

Bucky maneuvers around so that he’s between the two of you, an arm around each of your shoulders, and kisses you both on the temple.

 

“I think I can fall asleep now,” he announces. “But you’ve set a precedent and I don’t know how I’m supposed to shake off the leftover post-mission adrenaline after this.”

 

“Pleased to have been of service,” Steve says dryly, voice still thick through his post-orgasm haze. “Would patronize again.”

 

Bucky smacks one of Steve’s pecs, which Steve flexes at him, and then turns to you. He idly plays with your hair, smoothing it back from your face and tucking it behind your ears.

 

“Grab my phone, would you, Steve?”

 

Steve rolls his eyes and reaches over to the nightstand where Bucky’d left his phone and drops it onto Bucky’s abs. He promptly picks it up, ruffles his hair just a bit more, grins wide, and takes a selfie, which he immediately shows to you.

 

Laughing, you have to ask, “What’s that for?”

 

“My thanks to you,” he says, tapping another button, and then your phone _pings_ from the dresser that you’ve got a new text. “Why do you think I brought Steve with me tonight?” Before you can comment he suddenly exclaims, “Wait, I can show Steve now, right?”

 

_The picture._ Right. You’d completely forgotten about that. “You didn’t show him already?”

 

He gives you a _look_ , like he’s offended at the question. “Of course not. You sent it to me. You didn’t say anything about letting anyone else look at you.”

 

“Might as well,” you say, giving him a quick peck on the lips and then stretching long and cat-like.

 

He tips his phone at Steve and thumbs another button. “See? She’s amazing.”

 

“She’s prettier than you.”

 

“I can live with that. What do you think? Bookend photos? Before and after? I’m an artist, right?”

 

Steve’s smile is soft and warm. “Very poetic.” He kisses Bucky’s nose and sits up.

 

“Going somewhere?” you ask around a wide yawn.

 

Steve pauses to look back at you with one foot on the floor. “You must be tired.”

 

“I am.” You finally sit up, trying to convince yourself to go clean up a little. “Aren’t you?”

 

“I’ll be alright.”

 

“Well, you can be alright here,” you offer. “If that’s okay. I mean, if you want to.”

 

He’s got that unreadable look on his face again, but this time you think you can just about make heads or tails of it. He’s trying to decide if it’s his place to spend the night. Which is kind of considerate, except. Well. Duh. Of course you both want him to stay.

 

And this time when he smiles, it’s downright radiant.


End file.
